“I knew a Boston terrier once (he is now dead and, so far as I know, relaxed) whose nerves stayed keyed up from the twenty-fifth of one June to the sixth of the following July, without one minute’s peace for anybody in the family. He was an old dog and he was blind in one eye, but his infirmities caused no diminution in his nervous power. During the period of which I speak, the famous period of his greatest excitation, he not only raised a type of general hell which startled even his closest friends and observers, but he gave a mighty clever excuse. He said it was love.” – E.B. White, One Man’s Meat
You remember Miss Charlotte, don’t you?
I have long been of the opinion that Charlotte does not possess the world’s strongest digestive system— she seemed particularly prone to hairballs that would turn her into a keening, stretching, complaining, very-difficult-to-live-with roommate. The first time was after she got into my drawer and spent some time licking some merino Fleece Artist roving, so it seemed fit punishment, but after a while it seemed that nothing I could do could prevent these episodes… not daily brushing, not special hairball remedy food, not the addition of hairball medicine to her wetfood once she started the complaining… nothing.
You may remember the little infection she was suffering from. When at the vet, we decided to check and see if her previous owners had done the responsible thing and gotten her spayed. Answer: no. Jackasses.
Anyway, time passed waiting for the weather to improve (for taking her to the vet with no car) and free time (for taking her to the vet) to become available. (And for her owner to get up the courage to call the vet to make the appointment, because there is nothing her owner likes less than calling people on the phone.) The date was supposed to be last Wednesday, but we had to cancel because I forgot to take her water away when I took away her food for her pre-operative fasting. She had bloodwork done (she is a healthy and well-behaved kitty), was given some free toys, I rescheduled for next Thursday, and we went home.
On Monday, just as I was thinking, “at least she hasn’t had one of those hairball episodes recently, since J. is coming over to admire her tomorrow,” I looked down and realized she was doing the strange, crouched, keening, stretching that marks one of those episodes. It continued on Tuesday, and as I looked at her (perhaps inspired by the recent vet visit) I caught a view of her rear end and immediately thought of:
Rainbow, the great equine love of my childhood. She was my favorite pony to ride at the summer riding camp I attended, who always managed to be in heat for the two weeks out of the year I was riding her. It’s a frightening thing to be riding a pony who suddenly takes off across the arena after the handsome palomino gelding. (She was, years later, finally bred once, and had a filly.) “I wonder,” I thought, “if Charlotte is in heat?”
Well, J. showed up for tea and the first thing she said was, “Charlotte! That’s not very polite to show me that!” followed by, “is she in heat? I’ve never heard at cat be so quiet when in heat.”
“Well, she was yowling last night and I had to lock her out.”
“Yeah, she’s in heat.”
How could I have known? I probably never would have if J. hadn’t been through the same thing with her cat. We’ve always responsibly had our cats spayed; cats are less messy than dogs (of the many activities I have done with men and women of the cloth, shopping for puppy maxi pads with a priest may stand out as the oddest) and Charlotte’s floof makes it less obvious than with horses.
Spring has sprung, Chez Morfudd. Please send earplugs or perhaps a handsome tomcat. Eight days…
